


A human to a God

by cameliae



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, F/M, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, He apologizes to the both of them!, LITERALLY, M/M, Multi, No beta we die like no one ever does in my fics, Polyamory, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, References to Gods, References to Myths & Religions, Sad Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sad Jaskier | Dandelion, Sad Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Their depression brings hell on earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29737413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cameliae/pseuds/cameliae
Summary: The skies are enraged.Geralt, Yennefer and Jaskier are trapped inside a inn. They are going to die, they know it, because outside there is hell on Earth, and death, and no place safe.And one of them could be the culprit.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 15
Kudos: 70





	A human to a God

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first geraskefer fic! it might not be the last, because i love them so much.  
> i don't have much to say to this thing, because i don't really know where this idea comes from? my mind just can't keep still, and at some point i need to sleep, and when i try to sleep i just daydream a lot. or, well, more than usual.  
> also, i romanticized a lot of things. call them narrative effects?  
> as always, sorry for mistakes! no beta! it's all my restless brain's doing!

It started to rain a day later. 

Geralt's already bad mood started to increase even more, as he stomped down that trice damned mountain. His fingers trembled, and he knew very well that it was not because of the now terribly colder wind blowing, but he couldn't help but notice that the temperature was lower than the day before – lower than that same morning. 

He gritted his teeth, eyes roaming up to the gray sky. Winter was coming, and that felt like the only blessing that was falling upon him lately, because winters meant home and late nights with his brothers and the closest thing he could ever have as a break, to have some time off _everything_.

He felt a pang of worry when, as the day passed, the weather worsened. Not for Yennefer, no, because she could take care of herself, and just portal out of there – but that idiot that went down the mountain path alone, without waiting for him at the clearing as he should have done no matter how much he was offended... the thought of him in a dangerous territory, with an upcoming storm no less, is worrisome. He tried to not think of Jaskier, because the he was still angered – and the guilt was already creeping up his spine, gnawing at his insides – and deep down he was hoping that he, indeed, joined the dwarves in the end, and he was not at all alone – _as he was, as it should have been from the start_.

Caingorn and the stables where Roach was waiting for him is half a way down, when he had to find shelter for the night. He found an empty cave, built a fire, and meditated. He couldn't fall asleep. Not that he tried, but he knew that slumber would not come easily on him this time. He would not fall asleep peacefully, _safe_ , as he did with Yennefer ever again. 

The rain became a downpour by the time he reached the inn.

He was surprised the same when, once entered inside the inn, knowing that he could not go anywhere with that kind of weather – he could not permit that something bad would happen to Roach – he found every single still alive member of the dragon hunt there. 

Even Borch. Even Jaskier. Even _Yennefer_. 

She did not deign him of a glance, and Geralt did expect as much. Jaskier, instead, looked at him with a relieved expression, but... but still, he didn't come to him, didn't run towards him and started to ramble as always. He noticed Jaskier's belonging at his feet, belongings that – apart from his lute – should have been inside Roach's saddlebags, with Geralt's things.

He told himself _thank fuck_. 

He did not feel so thankful, though.

The common room was crowded, but Geralt found a table in a corner regardless. He settled there, ordered food and ale, and ignored the conversations around him. Someone was saying that if the storm did not placate, it would be impossible to walk the roads. He heard Yennefer snort and say that if things would not get better, she would just leave them all there and portal away. Jaskier muttered a mean: “Of course you will, but why are you still here?” 

It was Borch that reached out to him. He sat next to him, and after he gulped a mouthful of ale, Geralt just asked: “Your child?”

“Safer than us here.” was his response, “The skies are enraged.”

“Shouldn't you be with them?”

“Not now, no.” Borch shook his head, “But I will be, _if_ the rain ever stops.”

Geralt wasn't in the mood to understand Borch's cryptic words, so he just kept eating and drinking. Then he went out, saw Roach, gave her enough clean water and fresh hay, made sure that there still was pellet for her to sleep on. She seemed content, but she also seemed like she was waiting for something – for someone – that wasn't there with them, sniffing at Geralt's hands but not finding the treats he never gave her. 

Geralt patted her muzzle and turned back in. The rain still didn't show any sign of stopping, falling almost cruelly on the ground. Roads became torrents, trees bent under the force of wind.

 _The skies are enraged_.

None of the patrons could go back to their lives, when the night came. So the innkeepers decided that until the storm ended, the rooms were available for all of them – Geralt did not talk to Jaskier, as they walked up the stairs to their shared room, because he was expecting the bard to break the silence, but at first he didn't. 

The awkwardness fell upon them until they had to look into each other's eyes by the only bed in the room, when Jaskier finally, _finally_ talked. “Left or right?”

Geralt sighed, leaning his swords against the wall. “Jaskier,” he said his name, but abruptly stopped, because he didn't really know what to say.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. This is a very shitty situation, isn't it? We are all caged here for who knows when, and funnily right after–” Jaskier's voice faltered, until it stopped. “Can you endure me for a little more? I won't get in the way. You can talk with the witch, sort out all your problems, and live happily ever after. If there might be a silver lining here, it has to be this.”

Silence fell on them again. Geralt raised the blankets and got under them: he was pretty sure that not even that night sleep would come to him, but he could at least try. The road to Kaer Morhen was long and tortuous, he needed to be well rested before taking that way. 

There was an acrid, bitter scent lingering in the air. Geralt ignored it.

“You really have nothing to say to me?”

Lying on the bed, Geralt looked at him with a sigh, “Just sleep, Jaskier.”

The room got illuminated by a thunder, fallen not too far from the inn. Jaskier jolted, head shot back towards the window with a panicking jump. Geralt could not see his eyes, but he imagined them being wide open, like a deer caught by a lightning. It might not even be too far from reality. 

“If only I could.” Jaskier murmured, lying too on the bed but giving him his back. That position made Geralt feel lonely, but it was a sentiment so absurd that he just shrugged it off and closed his eyes.

Outside, the storm did not end, but it got calmer when he got up the next morning. 

It was still a downpour, and it still made the roads impassable, but Geralt could see, with some difficulty, a timid ray of sun peaking through the thick, gray clouds covering the sky. He did indeed sleep, for a bit, he felt as refreshed as he could ever be. 

Glancing at Jaskier, Geralt saw him still sleeping, his face relaxed, messy hair covering his closed lids. There was a slightly frown between his eyebrows, but so soft that it was difficult even for him to notice under the brown locks of his fringe.

Geralt swiped them off with the lightest touch he could gather so not to wake him up, then turned around and left the room.

The common room was almost empty, if not for Borch, the two Zerrikanians, and the innkeepers. “Most of the patrons went back to their home the second the storm calmed. After all, their houses aren't so far away.” one of the innkeepers was muttering, “Didn't even pay for the rooms, those whoresons.”

Not even an hour later, the storm increased again, with more force, with more violence it hit against the walls and doors. The sky darkened, it was an ominous scene.

“This looks like a catastrophe.” the other innkeeper said, “If it keeps like this, the land will become a giant swamp, and nothing will grow up again. If it keeps like this, our rations will end, and we will all die.”

“Always the same, you shithead. Stop being so gloomy, it's just the second day!”

“Myths spoke of a similar catastrophe cast by an angered God. It lasted forty days and forty nights, to drown the evil on Earth.” Borch said, calmly. “Just myths, they were. Evil is still on Earth, after all.”

 _The skies are enraged_.

Moments later, Yennefer walked down the stairs, followed by Jaskier. They were talking in hushed tones, so low that Geralt couldn't understand most of the spoken sentences, but for the look of it Jaskier did not seem happy with their argument. Yennefer, though, she looked smug, a cutting grin baring white teeth.

Geralt felt _something_ , something ugly and slimy kneading his mouth at their camaraderie. He felt left apart, abandoned, ignored. It was a feeling he should be used to – _it was a feeling he always felt with Yennefer, it was a feeling he always made Jaskier feel_ – but somehow he felt the injustice of it burning on his cheeks, like embarrassment, if more humiliating.

He hated it, this weakness. 

“I'm sorry, Yen.” he then said, because what else he has to do? Beg forgiveness, drop into his knees in front of her and say that what he did was wrong, but he just did it to save her. Not to see her die right after saving Jaskier's life, not to see her die after she mended his mistake which would have killed Jaskier, drowning him in his own blood that Geralt helped spill. “I had no right to do what I did, but I don't... I _can't_ regret it.”

“Well, well.” Yennefer snorted. She sat gracefully on a chair, and looked up at him with an elegant black eyebrow arched. “You are apologizing. For someone else it might be enough, but not for me, Witcher.”

Geralt gritted his teeth. “Would anything be even enough?”

“I am kind of disillusioned, to be honest, now that I know the truth. Things I could not comprehend before are now clear, and bitter. I do not know what love is supposed to be, of course,” she pursued her red lips, then looked around until her violet eyes stopped on Jaskier – Jaskier that was standing still in front of a window, watching the hell outside. His back was tense, his hands were trembling so slightly. He was close enough to be hearing everything Yennefer and he were talking about. Strangely, Geralt felt guilty. “But I know that ours wasn't love yet. Not a love that matters.”

“Could be, one day.”

“Sure.” Yennefer sneered, “But am I willing to wait? With the risk that once we break the Djinn's spell, all will be lost? I am not an hopeless puppy like your bard,” at that, Jaskier flinched, “I will not wiggle my tail at every scrap of attention you'd deign to give, to be then discarded when you will get enough of it.”

“Like you've done all this time with me?” Geralt growled.

“Like you've done all this time with the bard.” Yennefer replied, unapologetic.

They stared at each other for long moments, Geralt trying so hard not to turn and look at Jaskier again. He didn't want to acknowledge that those words were true and how much effects they had on him. “Why do you care? You can't even stand Jaskier, damn it!”

A thunder fell just outside the window Jaskier was leaning on. He shouted, scrambling away from the shaking – cracking – glass, and it was not long before another thunder fell, and the window shuttered.

Geralt fumbled up from his table, but Jaskier didn't get hurt, just soaked in the rain gusted in as he fell on the floor in fear of it. He whimpered, and brought a hand against his chest. In the chaos surrounding them, Geralt could clearly hear his heart beating like a war drum, louder than any noise, more deafening than the storm outside.

Yennefer went and, with a flick of her fingers, the window returned whole again.

“Fucking hell.” Jaskier creaked, “What the fuck is happening?”

Geralt looked out, and the gray of the storm became black, filled with blue and white, blinding stripes that made the land shake. Trembling like Jaskier's fingers tightened around a chunk of his own red doublet.

_The skies are enraged._

And they were bringing down on Earth all of their anger.

Yennefer lasted two more days, before she just flicked his hand and disappeared through a purple portal. She did not bring anyone with her, even if she grew a bit closer to Jaskier these past days – she only talked with him, and he had always that stricken expression twisting his face, even if sometimes his lips stretched in a barely there smile at whatever the sorceress said.

Jaskier did not speak to him, not even when they were both alone in their room. He just gave him a soft goodnight – every night, _goodnight, sleep well, sleep tight, sweet dreams_ – and nothing more of that. And once Yennefer was gone, Jaskier turned silent even in the common room. He didn't flirt with Téa and Véa, he didn't ask Borch or the dwarves for stories. He barely asked for food and drink.

It was unsettling. Geralt did not do anything to make things better.

He didn't know what Yennefer told him, but ever since they talked... Jaskier grew distant. _And he knew that it was stupid giving Yennefer the blame, when the only at fault there was only him, but it was also the easiest way to endure that silence that was not a blessing anymore._

On the fourth day since the storm began, Geralt went back into the inn after taking care of Roach – passing more and more time with her, because the loneliness felt a bit less oppressing with her – to see Yennefer there again, soaked wet from head to toe.

She looked at all of them with a heavy breath and wide violet eyes. She looked... not terrified, but Geralt would say scared. “Everywhere. The storm, is everywhere. The entire Continent is–” she gulped, and at last, she stared at Jaskier.

Jaskier was fidgeting with his fingers. _He_ looked terrified.

“What yer mean, sorceress?” one of the dwarves said – Geralt didn't turn and look, but from the voice it was probably Yarpin. “Explain!” he shouted in the dead silence of the common room.

“Don't you dare talk to me like that and give me orders, dwarf!” Yennefer has her teeth gritted, by the cold and by the outrage, “I meant what I said! I portalled in Temeria, and I found myself knees deep in water. I portalled in Redania and even at the borders of Nilfgaard, and the situation was the same!” she told with heavy breathing, her face ashen, her body shaking as her teeth are doing.

Before Geralt could do anything, Jaskier shrugged his doublet off his shoulders and threw it on Yennefer, trying to soothe the cold that was freezing her slim body – and she seemed so vulnerable in that moment, so alone, so afraid.

She snorted, “Should I appreciate the gesture even if this thing smells terribly?”

“You very well know that it doesn't!” bristled Jaskier, “Come near the fire. You should get rid of those drenched clothes.”

Her face softened, “If it's a way to see me naked, bard, it's not working.”

Geralt lowered his eyes, not being able to keep watching them together – _together, and without him_ – without feeling anger, guilt, _blame_ choking him from the inside; like vomit, like poison, like a curse. He just got closer to them, trying to shush all the voices around that weren't theirs, and shadowed both of them from unwanted, unworthy eyes.

His included.

Yennefer was saying things that hurt, like destroyed houses, like ghost towns, like bodies she had seen by the roads – people that didn't have a home, and that couldn't shelter themselves from the storm. Those were stories that Jaskier hated to hear, but he stood silent and listened, his lips tight, his blue eyes wide and terrified. 

“This is magic, Yen?” Geralt asked, “This is some mage's doing, or what?”

Yennefer looked up at him from the crouched position she and Jaskier were, and shook her head, “Chaos is powerful, but not reckless. Sorcerers and mages cannot do something like this without having control, and even if...” she bit her full lower lip, “Even if it's someone with no control over their power, it cannot be this strong, they would be dead by now. Also, I would have been able to feel the chaos in the air, insomuch this storm is so devastating.”

“So... a monster?” Jaskier turned his eyes on him. Those were the first words he directly said to him since their first night there, and Geralt felt flustered, somehow. They were both giving him attention again. “There must be a creature with this kind of power!”

“Not that I know of,” he said, and Jaskier's shoulders dropped. “There are monsters that handle nature, and weather, but...” he gestured at Yennefer, “Like this, all the Continent? No. It's impossible. Hundreds of leshens and wraiths couldn't not do the same.”

 _The skies are enraged_.

Suddenly, Geralt turned and searched for Borch. He found him with the two Zerrikanians at a table, his face placid as always, and the sight made Geralt's blood boil. He must know something, if he was so calm, did he? Maybe it was his doing all along. Geralt did not know, after all, how far the power of a golden dragon could go.

So he stormed towards him, and once reached his table, he asked, “You know.”

“Unfortunately, I do not.” Borch said, and with a hand he quieted the girls at his sides that were already quick on their feet. “This is even beyond me, I'm afraid.”

“But, your words! You knew that this rain could not have stopped!” he growled, “I am _done_ with your bullshits, Three Jackdaws. Just spit out all you know.”

“Look outside, Geralt, and tell me: if you do not know about the oddity of this situation, would you have thought it to be abnormal? All of us knew from the start that this wasn't just a passing storm, deep down. It reminded me of stories and myths of Gods and Goddesses too unbelievable to be true.” Borch glanced outside a window. The storm was becoming a blizzard, the sky was dark and menacing. It was getting worse as the days went by. “And yet, so plausible now.”

Jaskier appeared from behind him, and sat on a chair next to Véa. He didn't pay attention to her, though: he had his journal in one hand, and his gaudy writing feather on the other, “Tell me about those myths? Maybe,” he tapped an empty page with the still clean tip of the feather, “Maybe we could find answers. Do you think it's a God's doing?”

Borch smiled gently at Jaskier, but shook his head, “I do not think of things I cannot understand. But I will gladly tell you every story I know.”

Geralt stood awkwardly there while Jaskier gave all his attention to Borch's stream of words, writing down sentence after sentence. He locked eyes with Téa, who was watching him curiously, so he grunted and turned around, returning near Yennefer again, still elegantly seated by the fireplace.

There was still that acrid smell lingering in the air. Geralt kept ignoring it.

He joined her on the floor, back to the wall at the fireplace's side. He squeezed his eyes and banged his head against the wall, hands buried through his hair. He felt lost at sea, he felt desperate and useless – unwanted like he hadn't felt since decades. 

Hours passed like this, _days_ passed like this. The patrons started to get antsy, mothers couldn't calm their children anymore, men got angry at each other over a chunk of bread. The provisions were finishing faster than expected, and barrels with ale and water were emptying without no one notice. 

Geralt was always on alert, his eyes roaming always from Jaskier to Yennefer, afraid that someone would hurt any of them over a bigger or smaller ration of stew. He couldn't sleep, knowing that Yennefer was alone in a room nearby his, and even if he knew – he knew damn it – that Yennefer could kill a man with just one of her freezing stare, he couldn't help but lose his sleep over it. He couldn't even stay longer with Roach, getting more nervous as more minutes he passed away from Jaskier.

He even brought Roach farther from the other horses in the stables, because an evil thought gnawed his mind, telling him that those hungry men would kill the animals for just more food. Desperate times bring desperate methods, but Geralt couldn't accept it.

Once he asked Yennefer why she was staying there with them, and not going somewhere safer, like Aretuza. She just looked at him strangely, then glanced almost reluctantly at Jaskier – still with Borch, still safe – and did not respond. 

Almost seven days since the beginning of that storm, Jaskier stopped sitting near Borch and reached out to Yennefer and him. He had his journal gripped tight in a fist, and a frown twisting his facial features. Whatever he found out in Borch's stories, it did not help.

“So?” Yennefer asked.

Jaskier bit his lip, and sat. “It was interesting, at least. He talked for days, as you've seen, and everyday brought a different story, a different God, a different time and different people. There was a Goddess who was the bride of Death himself, and she brought spring on Earth and winter at her departure in the underworld. There were people that adored a God of thunders, that every time he fought something like this,” he indicated the window, “Would happen. There was a vengeful God, who condemned the people he called children just to get rid of Evil, sending plagues and flooding the Earth with a storm for forty days and forty nights. And many, many other Gods and Goddesses, that were more peaceful, that granted wishes and brought rain, made the land sprout with life when people danced and made sacrifices for them.”

“That's a bunch of bullshit.” grunted Geralt. He didn't believe in those things, no matter how many similarities there were.

“I do think that, even if they are all very plausible stories for this,” Yennefer also indicated the window, “They are still... stories. They aren't written in ancient books, they are just coming out from an ancient being's mouth. Highly romanticized, and probably just excuses to justify strange events.”

“Borch also said...” Jaskier's voice trembled, and abruptly stopped. Then he sighed, as if gathering a courage he couldn't find, “He also said that whatever this is, it started _here_. Or more precisely, in the Niedamir's mountains. He said that there were Gods and children of Gods that could bring calamities on Earth just for the intensity of their emotions, and implied that–” he stopped again.

“Implied what?” asked Geralt. Raising his eyes, he looked up at Borch, who was eating as if he wasn't hearing a thing, as if he wasn't concerned about anything. His placid face was getting on his nerves – his mood had not improved, on the contrary: even if he still had Yennefer and Jaskier by his side, their attentions weren't always at him, they ignored him _and it was his fault_. 

“What was he implying, Jaskier?” Yennefer also asked, voice chill but somehow reassuring.

“It might be one of us' fault. Upon the peak of the mountain, what happened there... hurt us. We can pretend that it didn't, but... the storm is trying to tell the contrary, it seems.”

“It's stupid, Jaskier.” Geralt gritted his teeth. “You can't believe this!”

“Did he really say that one of us is a _God_?” Yennefer blurted out an ugly laugh, “This is too pathetic, even for you, bard!”

“Does that really sound so unbelievable? Think about it, isn't it too much of a coincidence that this storm started after our... our _discussions_ , and is a storm of this magnitude? A storm came out directly from a myth, of a greatness so devastating?” Jaskier lowered his big eyes, and tightened his journal with fingers more tense. “I am cynical. I tell stories and I know how romanticized a tale, a novel, a song can be, because I make them and most of them don't resemble reality in the least. So... I can tell the difference from truths and from lies.”

“You are also a fool.” sneered Yennefer. Geralt would have said the same, if she already didn't tell so.

Jaskier raised his chin and locked eyes with her, “And _you_ are the most powerful sorceress that grazed Earth, aren't you?”

She bared her teeth, “Do you think it's me? Do you think I am the responsible for all of this shit? I am not the only one with powers here.” she turned sharply toward Geralt, “Right, Witcher?”

“The most I can do with sign is start a fire and blow a fucking wind.” Geralt pinched his nose, “None of us has done anything, let's stop this nonsense, damn it.”

“Couldn't it be the bard?”

Geralt snorted, “Don't be ridiculous, Yen.”

“What?” Jaskier trembles, his eyes ablaze with renewed fury, “Can't I be something more of a weak, useless human? More than your annoying, pathetic punching bag?” he hissed, and before Geralt could say anything, _anything_ to swipe off his head the thought of Geralt thinking so low of him, a stare from behind Jaskier caught his attention. Fuck. Were the other patrons hearing what they were saying? “No, no, of course. For you I am nothing than a shit–shoveler, uh? Maybe all this mess is _your_ fucking bless–”

Geralt hissed back, “Shut up, Jaskier.”

Jaskier clicked his mouth shut, and glanced briefly where Geralt was staring menacingly. Then, he paled when he saw one of the dwarves' slit glare, and his anger died as it was born. He murmured a curse, and hid his journal into an inside pocket of his doublet.

He did not utter a word again that day.

But rumors started, and by the tenth day since the beginning of the storm, everyone but Borch and Téa and Véa watched the three of them with fear and suspicion, sending glares from the other side of the room, whispering plans in low tones as they indicated first Jaskier, then Yennefer, then him. 

Geralt started to get paranoid, and convinced Jaskier and Yennefer to stay always together. They accompanied him anytime he had to go to Roach, then gathered all Yennefer's belongings from her room to let her stay with them – Jaskier left her the bed, and Geralt left him the bedroll –, and even if it pained all of them to stay so close to each other, they resisted for their own sake.

Geralt couldn't help but think that their discontent is all because of him.

Someone asked Jaskier to sing one of his most famous songs, one of the first days.

The bard was still offended by the words he said on the mountain, that much was clear. He wasn't in a cheerful mood to start dancing and playing around in a crowded room, so he brushed off the requests saying that not all of the people present would appreciate the distraction. At the time, Geralt did feel a pang of guilt at those words spoken with so much bitterness, but he didn't understand that he wouldn't sing just because of him.

After all, no matter what he'd always said to him, Jaskier never stopped singing. And it was perfect like that.

Now, ten days after that moment, Jaskier's fingers couldn't stay still. He was fidgeting more than he used to always do, drumming fingertips on every surface he had his hands on – the table, the wall, his own legs –, hummed with his eyes lost somewhere outside the window. 

He stopped every time he noticed Geralt getting closer. 

“Why don't you sing something?” he asked him one evening, when the three of them were confined into their room. “We're just us here.”

Jaskier's eyebrows firstly shot up, then furrowed as if Geralt's words were said in an unknown language and so he couldn't fully understand their meaning. He eyed at his lute, abandoned in a corner of the room, with a layer of dust collected on the case, and his hands twitched.

Then, something flicked in his face, and shook his head, “Better not. Now that you've found your peace, I won't ruin it for you _again_.”

“What are you saying?” Geralt grunted, then, and threw a hand against the window. “This is not peace, Jaskier.”

Outside, the storm is raging, unceasingly, endlessly. None of them had the boldness of leaning against the window and looking at the situation on the ground, too afraid maybe that all they would see was water and debris and dirt and corpses. 

Jaskier watched him with a strange expression. He grimaced, rolled his eyes, and didn't answer him anymore. He didn't grab his lute, just kept drumming his finger to whatever music was played in his mind.

Yennefer snorted.

Geralt hated, hated that situation so much. He couldn't understand half the time what was going on in Jaskier's and Yennefer's mind, when just a month before it was so simple for him. It was enough just smelling their scents, the sweet lilacs and gooseberries, the calm chamomile and bergamot. Now, those scents were always clouded by restlessness, fear, sadness, guilt, and nothing made sense anymore.

Like Yennefer. Yennefer was a blank canvas in her rage.

He still didn't understand why she kept staying there with them, when she probably had somewhere else to go. Geralt did ask her that once, and she didn't answer – but as the days went by, and their death approached more firmly than before, he now pretended a response. She could save herself, after all. He was sure that Aretuza was more prepared, had more provisions, less hungry people ready to fight over a sip of water. 

He told her that, one morning. Jaskier was still snoring lightly under the furs of his bedroll, Geralt knew that he also was starting to have trouble falling asleep, so they both talked with hushed tones, as not to wake him up.

He could sleep as long as he wished. They had not to go anywhere, after all.

“Do you have a home, Geralt?” she asked him, instead of answering.

“As much as Kaer Morhen can be a home to a Witcher.” he said, from his meditated position on the floor. 

Geralt hadn't thought much of his fellow Witchers there on the Blue Mountains – but he didn't feel worried towards them, because he knew that up there, they were safer than Geralt was. He just hoped that Lambert and Eskel reached the keep in time, that year.

Yennefer hummed, lowly, “Do you wish to be portalled there, if I could?”

“What? And leave you two here? Fuck, no.”

Yennefer batted her long lashes, staring at him with a frozen – and yet so, so warm – stare, as if saying: _see? You've got my answer_. Suddenly, her actions made slightly more sense, even if Geralt knew she would never say anything of the sorts out loud. But she said that if she had to die, she preferred to do it as far from Aretuza as possible. No matter where she would go – no matter where she could bring the three of them, nowhere was safe if it continued like this.

They would die the same. At least they were together.

The thought alone was unbearable. Jaskier would be the first one to die – of hunger, of thirst, their weakest point men could hit more easily. Yennefer probably would fight back, for a while, but hunger and thirst would get her at the end slowly, painfully slowly. They both would die in front of him, in his arms, and he could do nothing, nothing at all. _Useless, useless, couldn't even save the people that meant the most to him_.

Geralt would kill himself just to give them a week – hell, a day, an _hour_ more.

For what it was worth.

It was going to change. Geralt didn't know what, but something was going to change – he felt it in the dense air lingering in the common room, in the burning eyes of the patrons and innkeepers, in the skittish way Jaskier was acting, in the tension growing more and more visible on Yennefer's face.

It was not about the weather. _The skies are enraged_. They still were, untamed, angered with them, angered with the Evil, vengeful and cruel. After a fortnight, the walls of the inn were starting to rot, the room decaying at the angles. Geralt helped the innkeepers by bricking up the fireplace, because too much rain was flooding inside from it. 

There wasn't enough food anymore. A mother stopped eating to let her child have her food, and Geralt gave her his rations, because what else could he do? He was a Witcher, he could survive for days without food. She could not.

Jaskier sighed, and threw his stale chunk of bread at him, saying that his stomach was in knots, that he was nauseous, that he was gonna vomit if he only ate more than he already had. Sounded like a lie, to be honest, so Geralt took the bread and put it aside, for when Jaskier's hunger would come again. He didn't want to have an argument over it, so he would just give it back to him the second he was going to hear the rumble of his belly.

Something did change, at last, one morning. And it was in Jaskier.

“Do you remember after Rinde?” he asked no one in particular. They were the three of them in the common room just to gather some sip of water before hiding again in their room: Jaskier was looking outside the window, as he did almost all the time. Yennefer sat next to him, closer to Geralt, but turned towards him. 

“It's not an argument I want to talk about, bard.” snorted Yennefer, sipping the half mug of water. At this point, a mug needed to be enough for the three of them all, or war would break out.

“I'm not talking about what happened in Rinde. I mean what happened _after_ Rinde. I didn't think much of it at the time, but it's the only thing torturing my mind lately. I remember staying there for three days, there in the inn where I left my things before getting drunk and meeting you.” he was saying, voice monotone, glancing briefly at Geralt, “You slept most of that time there. And you murmured often her name,” she smiled tentatively at Yennefer, “We didn't know where you were, but he was quite nervous about your disappearance.”

“He slept because he was nervous?” Yennefer's voice was bored.

“He was tired, remember? Sleep–deprived.” Jaskier shook his head, “But I wasn't. At all. I remember that the first night I had a nightmare, but I can't recall it now. So it was very difficult for me to follow your example, Geralt. And like that, I had a lot of time to... think. About what happened. I don't mean the thing between you two, even if I felt a bit of jealousy at the time, I can't... really lie about that.” he chuckled. It felt hollow. “I... there was this ugly, very ugly thought, roaming in my mind, tormenting my rest and my wake. A thought that I didn't want to believe at first, but it kept being there, so persistent, so cruel. At last, I believed it.”

Yennefer caught his attention, “And what thought was that?” she asked.

“I think it's me.” he said instead, pointing his finger against the window's glass. “The responsible of this. I am not saying that I am a God or whatever that bullshit Borch was implying, but I think... no, I am _sure_ that it's my fault.”

“And why the fuck you think that?” Geralt growled.

He didn't know why, but he had a bad feeling, the one of wanting to run away, as if escaping from a danger.

Jaskier tapped against the window with more force, angrily, “This happened. It happened the same in Rinde. There was this storm, I remember it scaring the shit out of me. I remember thinking it was the Djinn's doing, somehow, but now I know better.” he turned, slowly, and locked his blue eyes with his. They were so sad. Why didn't Geralt notice before? “I was so heartbroken, Geralt. I thought you wished for me to die.”

“Are you _insane_ ?” he almost shouted. The sole image of Jaskier bleeding from his mouth still tormented him, sometimes, and just the thought of him dead was _terrifying._ “How could you think that? It was the Djinn's doing!”

“Can you really blame me, Geralt? Back then, you woke up and I felt reassured, even if you didn't do shit to reassure me. And the storm ceased. But now, now I believe that what the Djinn granted you was _exactly_ what you wished for. You wanted Yennefer, from the start, and wished to link your lives. Here, you have her! You wanted peace, and it almost killed me because I am the bane of your existence, right? You thought of me to be a shit–shoveler since back then, you wanted me out of your hands since back then. Didn't you wish for it again, up on that damned mountain? Wouldn't it be your Life's blessing to finally, _finally_ have me dead?”

Geralt felt his chest constrict, his throat closing in a painful, deadly grip. He'd say that what he was feeling was disappointment, resignation. He'd like to say that it was no surprise that in the end Jaskier was just another of many people thinking he was a beast, a mutant, a dangerous monster that all he desired was to stain his hands with blood.

And it might be true, Geralt didn't care. That might be true, but... not Jaskier. _Not Jaskier_.

“Do you really...” he swallowed. He felt his mouth dry. He wasn't even sure that anything came out of his lips. “Do you really think that, Jaskier?”

Jaskier's fury dimmed, as everything had ever shined in his eyes. He lowered them, pointing his blackened stare on the flood, and said nothing. That was enough of an answer.

Geralt couldn't let him think that. He just _couldn't_ . It was even fine if he thought that Geralt couldn't stand him, hated him maybe – and they were all lies, _all lies_ – but never, never this. They couldn't all die in that hell, together physically but so, so apart emotionally, with Jaskier thinking that all Geralt wanted was this.

He made a step towards him, even if he didn't know what to do. Touch him, comfort him, just... look at his face again. 

But it was Yennefer's fingers stopping him in a death grip at his bicep. She has wide eyes, menacing, threatening, “Geralt.” there is emergency in her tone of voice.

He knew that she wasn't referring to him. He turned, and he caught a man, one of the patrons, walking towards them with suspicion in his eyes, hands closed in fists. 

“What're you sayin' you three?” he asked. Behind him, two other men gathered, and one of the dwarves too. Not Yarpen, but Geralt could see him trembling in an angle, probably ready to fight. “The rumors were true? One of yer lots,” he spits, “Are the motherfuckers who gots us in this hell?”

Jaskier was breathing heavily, “I–”

“He's scared, as all of us are. He doesn't know what he's saying.” Geralt stopped him, covering both Yennefer and Jaskier with his body from the evil in the men's eyes.

“If he's the cause of this, he's to stop! Or we'll make 'im!”

Geralt unsheathed one of his swords – the steel one, _steel for human, steel for men –_ and pointed the tip against the man's throat, gripping his frayed shirt in a fist so as to stop his track. Gasps echoed around him. He didn't care. “Make another threat, and I'll chop your head off your body. You will stay away from the bard's and the sorceress' sights from now on, and if only a hair will be torn off one of them, you will be the first one to die by my sword, even if you're not the culprit.” Geralt tilted his head, eyes ablaze, “Did I make myself clear?”

The man nodded, smelling of piss. Geralt released him, and grabbed Jaskier and Yennefer by their arms, dragging them away. 

Once hidden in their room, Yennefer explodes, “I can take care of myself, Geralt, don't you dare make threats on my behalf!”

“Shut up, Yen.” Geralt growled, “ _Please._ ” he added, with a thin voice. 

He slid off against the wall to the floor, burying his hands in his hair and tightening it into his fists. Yennefer fell silent, even if nervousness was still coming out of her in waves. 

Jaskier just murmured, “I am sorry.” before getting close to the window to look outside.

No one talked for a long time.

“After Blaviken, it rained.” it was Geralt the first to break the silence, “At first, I didn't notice it, because stones and pebbles were thrown at my back, and my body felt numb and tired. I was still drenched in Renfri's blood, so only when the rain cleaned me from it I really noticed the upcoming storm. I stayed three days trapped in a cave, unable to make camp or start a fire, with Roach as my only company and source of heat. I remember thinking it was Renfri's wrath, plaguing me from the afterlife, tormenting me for my sins. Then I heard someone cry, a child trapped like me in a nearby cave, and... the storm stopped. So I could bring that child back, even if I couldn't enter Blaviken again. Never did ever since.” at that, Geralt raised his eyes and looked at Jaskier, “So it can also be me. I broke my own heart on the mountain, twice.”

Jaskier's face crumpled, and his eyes welled with tears. He bit his lips probably not to burst out crying, or maybe to stop talking shit as he always did when nervous. Geralt hoped he did, instead, he hoped that he didn't refrain himself.

“I...” Yennefer grimaced, but took a step next to Jaskier. She grabbed his wrist, and squeezed it with strong, lean fingers, digging her cured nails in his skin. He didn't even flinch. “I was sold to the Brotherhood, I was worth four marks. At Aretuza, it started to rain when I slit my wrists,” Geralt hissed, and Jaskier looked right in front of him, in her eyes, not lowering his in order not to glance down at her covered arms, “And I don't... I don't remember a time where a storm wasn't rumbling above us after that. Tissaia told me that everything calmed, when I...” she touched, slowly, her jaw, “When I finally took my life in my own hands. So it can also be me. You aren't special, bard.”

By the smell of salt that, once Jaskier was tucked inside his bedroll under the furs, lingered in the air, he did at last cry. No one said anything to him, they left him coping with whatever was bothering his mind alone, with just the comfort of their presence.

Their words had been enough.

Geralt watched over Jaskier and Yennefer all night long, only the persistent _thud_ of the rain outside and their heavy breathing to keep him company. He couldn't sleep, and he couldn't meditate. He just wanted to go back to a time when he had Jaskier and Yennefer all for him, and they were both happy, and their hearts were whole and not broken because of him.

He might have caused this damned storm, but he couldn't rewind time.

When Yennefer awakened, it was probably morning. It was difficult to say. The sky was always, always so dark, all day long, all the days. 

She sat next to him on the floor, and so, he blurted out, “How could he think that? I know that I... I've never been a good friend, I am aware of that. But it's always been so painfully obvious that his life is so dear to me.”

Yennefer, for once, didn't snort. “Remember our delightful chatter in Rinde, during our bath? About our shitty childhoods?” Geralt nodded, and she sighed, “He is so similar to us, uh? I was skeptical at first, but he is. He's maybe just a better actor than we could ever be. If he's used to people he holds dear wanting him hurt, or dead, it's not difficult not to blame him for always thinking it when... words were spoken, when gestures were done. We should understand him more that we actually do.”

“And _how_ do you know about his childhood?”

She watched Jaskier's sleeping body on the other side of the room, snoring soundly. It was freezing more and more as the time went by, and Jaskier was always at risk of catching a cold. Yennefer was doing the impossible to prevent that, without him acknowledging her magic in his slumber – but even she could do as much. “You'd be surprised how much he talks about himself if you'd give him at least a bit of attention. Getting our hearts broken by the same man bonds better than a Djinn's wish.”

Geralt closed his eyes and dropped his head against his bent knees.

“I told you that apologizing is not enough for me.” Yennefer said, standing up and ready to leave him alone in his brooding, “But I wasn't lying when I said that it could be enough for someone else.”

Geralt didn't know what he was going to do, but one thing was clear: he needed to make things better, before it was too late. 

“I love you.” he whispered, foolishly. Hoping for something, hoping to _at least_ try to do the right thing. He brought his fingers – rough, scarred, dangerous – on her arms, caressing her covered skin. He lingered not too much on her wrist, then, tentatively, intertwined his hand with hers.

She smiles, sadly. “This is better than excuses. This is a start.” then, she furrowed her eyebrows, “I just wish to be able to believe your words.”

The end was near, and they didn't have much time left.

Geralt started with small things. He noticed that he was already doing everything he knew to show his care for Jaskier and Yennefer, giving them his food – that they always refused –, letting their rest as comfortable as he could make – with more furs, with less humid blankets, barring the window so the noises outside would dim. 

He begged Jaskier again to sing something, but he always refused.

He told Yennefer that he loved her more often, to make her see that his feelings had nothing to do with magic, but she never believed him. His declarations just made Jaskier feel awkward, uncomfortable, sad.

Now he recognized the acrid scent of sadness in the air. He was still asking himself how he couldn't notice that before.

A month after all of that began – or so he thought, time is ephemeral – he killed rats hidden inside the inn and shared them with the other patrons to have more water to give Jaskier. Crying didn't help with dehydration, even if he tried so hard to deny the tears still dampening the bedroll. 

Regardless, he was able to bring three whole rats in their room – uncooked, but a sign would be enough to solve the problem. 

Once opened the door, Geralt found Jaskier and Yennefer on the floor. She had glowing fingers around Jaskier's wrist, squeezing tight, and she was healing a light wound that was not even bleeding too much in his palm. But every drop of blood was vital, to have just another second to live.

“What happened?” he asked, trying not to sound too panicked.

“The idiot fell on a nail on the floor.” Yennefer snorted, “He knew it was there.”

“Yes, but I was waking up! I didn't notice!”

Geralt dropped his swords and the corpses of the rats on the floor, and he was so tired. He hated growling at the other patrons, catching their venomous stares, their vague unsaid threats. He wanted Jaskier and Yennefer safe, alive and happy, and yet – Gods, and yet he wanted this. Exactly this. Finding them waiting for him together, taking care of each other, joking together, mocking each other. 

“I love you.” he blurted out, shame creeping up his cheeks. He shouldn't be able to blush, but what was the sudden heat burning on his face?

Jaskier, for a second, turned to look at him with wide, incredulous eyes. Then he blinked, and smiled uncomfortably at Yennefer, saying nothing.

Geralt gritted his teeth, “Ah, fuck.”

He dropped on his knees in front of them. He grabbed their hands in his, cradling them, so smaller and leaner than his. So precious. “I love both of you,” he grunted, “Is it too strange?”

“Wait,” Jaskier's mouth opened up in stupor, eyes so vulnerably wide like struck by lightning. A thunder fell outside the window, illuminating his face with a white, terrifying light. “What?”

“I know. I've been a... very shitty friend. And I'm sorry, for everything: pride and anger clouded my senses and I couldn't think straight with you. This is a thing I should have said that very first night here.” he swallowed. He remembered: _you really have nothing to say to me?_ “I don't know how much time we have left, but I swear that I'll try to be... better, to you and for you. I don't want you to think I want you dead, or hurt, or unhappy ever again. I'll be a better friend, and... if you want, even more.”

Jaskier whined, a strange noise not different than a screech coming out of his throat. Geralt would have smiled at that, if he wasn't so flustered himself.

“Took you long enough.” said Yennefer, shaking her head.

“I'm not done.” he turned towards her, “You don't believe my words, and I don't know how to show you the truthiness of them. But I know the difference between a true love, and a fake one, because I always loved Jaskier, even if I never acknowledged it.” he brought both their hands to his lips, “And I love you the same. Magic cannot fake so well.”

Yennefer's face was tense, pale. Her beautiful lips were pursued, her fingers trapped in his palm were trembling slightly. “You underestimate magic, Geralt.”

“Come on, Yen. You love me!” said Jaskier, with a laugh. It might be the first, _real_ laughter since they took part in that dreadful dragon hunt. His chest hurt: he ruined both of them so much in just a matter of days. But he would never make the same mistake again. “You also must know the difference between truths and lies!”

“I don't love you, you moron!” Yennefer bared her teeth. Then, she lowered her head, hiding her face with her hair. “Ah, fuck you, both of you. Is it that much obvious?”

“I've always been shit at noticing things like that.” Jaskier said, his voice suddenly quiet, “But this looks like confirmation enough for me.”

Geralt probably didn't fully understand what was going on, because he thought that obtaining what he desired so much would have felt differently than just a plain sense of rightness. He just felt like things had finally found their right place, like his – _their_ – heart had finally found the pieces it missed.

He pressed his lips on their hands, and closed his eyes.

They woke up together when a ray of sun hit their faces.

They fell asleep on the floor, Jaskier's face buried in Geralt's neck, Yennefer tucked between the two of them to steal as much warmth as possible. It was perfect. It was even better the morning after.

The sight of the sun coming in from the window shocked him still. It had been way too long since he saw it last, so much that his tender eyes stung almost painfully. Yennefer gasped softly, pushing against his chest to sit and look better at the sunbathed room. Jaskier was the last to notice, mumbling something is his half–awake state and trying to shield his eyes from the unexpected light by pressing them against Geralt's chest – but when he finally surrendered and awakened, he firstly blinked away his sleep, then scrambled up and run towards the lightened window, almost smashing his nose against the warmed glass. 

“It's... done? Is this the end?” his lip trembled, “Did we survive?”

Geralt extended a hand to help Yennefer get up on her feet, so we could join him. “We're not safe, but yes, Jask. It's done. We didn't die.”

“So it was really one of us?” Yennefer asked, leaning on the windowsill to also see outside. Neither of them were bold enough to open the glass and look down at the devastation the storm had left behind. “Was it really our fault? Because of our emotions, just like those Gods of those myths?”

The sky was crystal clear. It was of a blue so pure that mirrored the colour of Jaskier's eyes.

_The skies were blessed._

“Does it care, now?” Jaskier was smiling, turning at them with his arms wide open. “We're fine, we're alive, we're together, and we love each other. I don't care about anything anymore! I just want to go out, leave this shitty inn and this shitty town, and go on with our life. I don't care if we're Gods, humans, immortals, heroes, villains.” he slid an arm around Yennefer's waist, bent and kissed her lips, “What do you think?”

“I think we should do researches about this thing, we cannot stay blissfully ignorant–”

“Yen,” Jaskier said her name, with a sweet, sweet voice. As sweet as her scent. 

She huffed, “Oh, alright, you blissful ignorant.”

Jaskier laughed, laughed so happily, and kissed her again. She almost hit him, but she didn't.

Instead, she turned towards Geralt, and posed a hand against his chest, upon his heart. Her violet, violent eyes shone brilliantly in the light of the sun. “But we won't act differently than before yesterday. We won't show the people here how much we've changed right when the storm stopped, they're suspicious enough.”

Geralt was still paranoid. He was still afraid that they could hurt Yennefer, and Jaskier. Now he was scared that they would just put them all on a stake, and burn them alive: not that he cared much about himself, but he couldn't bear the same thought for the other two. They were just escaped from Death, he wouldn't permit anyone and anything to take them away from him. So he nodded, and growled at Jaskier until he also accepted that – but he was so bright, so happy. He wanted to shout it at the entire world.

Geralt couldn't blame him, honestly. He promised that he wouldn't have to restrain himself for too long.

For that promise alone, he too received a kiss from him.

There was chaos in the common room. People were crying out of relief. When they opened the door, water flooded inside but it wasn't as destructive as expected, but even sunken till waists, everyone got outside, enjoying the warmth of the sun on their faces after so long. Roads were destroyed, trees torn from the ground. They buried the corpses floating around the town the second the water withdrew. There still wasn't enough food, but they were going to make it somehow.

Borch and the two Zerrikanians were the first to go – he had a child to take care of, after all.

The dwarves helped Geralt and the innkeepers fix the damages, no one told anything nor blamed him. They might still be suspicious after his outburst, but no threats came at him.

Roach neighed, making happy noises, when she could finally run again.

Yennefer and Jaskier went somewhere, but not too far. It wouldn't be too hard to find them later. They were waiting for him outside of town, together, hoping that his job would end soon, that they could finally just... _go._ Jaskier was becoming crazy, antsy, restless in being secluded there. He couldn't do it anymore. All he and Yennefer ever wanted was to lounge under the sun as much as possible. 

Geralt would grant them that wish whenever they asked.

They left with a cold farewell, and two kisses given in secret.

_The skies were blessed._

**Author's Note:**

> say hi to me on my tumblr! [@geraltdirivia](https://geraltdirivia.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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